


let’s be frank!

by reymmefatale



Category: Reylo - Fandom
Genre: 30 Day NSFW Challenge, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward, Ben Is A Snack, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Ben Solo is a Mess, Ben is a hotdog, Brotherly Love, Devoted Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Eventual Poe Dameron/Finn, F/M, Finn and Rey (Star Wars) Are Related, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Happily Ever After, Implied Poe Dameron/Finn, M/M, Modern Era, NSFW, One Shot, Oral Sex, Poe Dameron/Finn Fluff, Possessive Ben Solo, Rey Solo, Rey needs a hotdog, Rey needs a man, Reylo - Freeform, Reylo AU Week, Reylo Week 2019, Reylo is canon, Reylofest, Smut, Soft Boy Ben Solo, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Two Shot, Virgin Ben Solo, all is fair in love and your brother’s girlfriend, ben solo is a baby, ben solo is a softie, crazy mixed-up feelings, lots of feelings, love in unexpected places
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-01-03 17:51:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21183524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reymmefatale/pseuds/reymmefatale
Summary: He tried to stay at ease and free from his alarm, “Can I, uh... help you? Anything you would like, perhaps?”She looked at him, studied with piercing scrutiny and thus regarded him with a faint smile, “No, thanks. But you look quite a snack.”





	let’s be frank!

**Author's Note:**

> This probably would be my favorite story to have written so far and I do hope you’d like it! Have been feeding myself with too much tros content yet im so excited to share this work to all of you! i’m still new to writing and this is only my fourth one but I do admit im still needing improvement and this is only the first half of the story so i’d be thankful to hear your comments about it so far! 
> 
> if you have twitter, follow me @reymmefatale for more tros content and updates about the story! happy reading, everyone!

* * *

** _let’s be frank! _ **

* * *

“I’m—I’m a hotdog. A fucking _hotdog_!”

The awfully sad truth, he is, optically and eye-catching in the hungry eyes of many—close to those pointlessly dumb, hungry TV tropes and suspecting like most cartoons, if he turned into a pork chop, might have been a Porky Pig.

Poe patted him consolingly on the shoulder, or at least tries. It was impractical through the thick layers of painted foam and velour, and the awkwardly wacky get-up just wasn’t that peachy—a bit sully, quite neither one thing nor the other, and reeks but vaguely of every person who’s ever been coerced to go through the same appraisal Ben is currently in. 

“Man, don’t say that. Everybody loves hotdogs. They’re tasty, deliciously attractive, and they’re uh, er—hot. Obviously.”

Straight-faced, Ben tries to give him his best deadpan stare, lifting his arms to the side to say,  _I am. I  am __a hotdog. Literally a hotdog._ Utter disapproval gleamed in his eyes. He thought this was one helluva bloody baptism of fire, and somehow he savvies it’d be hopeless to possibly live through it.  Well, his story  is an achingly human one, mired in quotidian details of spending each second of his not-so-ordeal life being a pricelessly crappy hotdog, which, by far, is his worst-case scenario and is a bitter pill to swallow. 

“Of course you had to say that, cos you’re basically my brother from another mother. But truth is, I’m an absolute crackpot.” 

But Poe shakes his head to debunk his thoughts, “No, no. That doesn’t matter. It’s what’s in  _here_ that counts.” He then points a finger to Ben’s chest—rather to the middle of the texturized hotdog’s red-painted foam substantially smothering his manly build.

“Cheese? Relish and onions?” Ben asks. “Perhaps some sauerkraut?”

“I mean ideally speaking, some ketchup and mayonnaise along with the dog alone is enough, but—no. No, what? She ain’t gonna judge you for being a part-time hotdog—”

All Poe thought he was helping, he believes to be. Though Ben doesn’t seem to get a grip. Still in utter discomfort, he raises an eyebrow.

“—alright, fine. Well, if she  _does_, it’s completely her loss. Not you,” Poe concedes. There are underlying principles in all existence like gravity and time and the certainty that women and popsies who wear Gucci, or Prada, or Saint Laurent don’t give a damn to look on as—let alone go out with on dates—sandwich boys. No matter whatever else Ben is, he works part-time, all clad in a hotdog sandwich costume, foisting unwanted handbills on heedless passersby.

No coming back, there’s certainly nothing to lose.

* * *

* * *

The morning it started was lucid to his impression, for it was beautiful. It was spring, and for some unascertainable reasons, the weather on this particular date had an aura of such aesthetic pleasure—bright and dry with a fresh, constant breeze; the ground wet with last night’s rainfall, puddles still gleaming on the damp pavement. And a few sparse clouds racing across the sky, being chased by the cold, keen wind, and buds blooming on the ornamental peaches someone thought would look good lining the streets. 

He was reluctant in doing part-times. Yet he only took the job to fill up his spare from ten to one, and the gig was pretty nearby, only a few yards from his regularly typical work. Perhaps an extra bit of income as a take would be nice?

It was Ben’s fourth day. Some jane wandering down the street walked by ten minutes later than he blew in not a moment too soon for his work period, coffee in hand, rigged out in a casual, pinstriped jumpsuit Ben would point out as Wu next to alternately intolerable evenings of musing over women’s vogue and finery mags, telling himself to assure it was merely his gut and not anything more intent.

She made her way with the finesse and poise—was a poetry in motion; and personality as though of someone who’s fully au fait with and forwardly ware of her own physique and caliber. And then when she was within a few feet, she glances at Ben and blissfully  _smiles_, twinkling at him. Ben thought it was quite weird. A random yet fair and comely young woman smiling at him, and not the unforgivably cringeworthy _don’t-look-right-at-the-hotdog-sandwich-boy_ look he’s awfully getting used to. It was keen and pleasing, and what’s more, somehow intrigued. Though like Ben is on the joke, then _bam_. He doesn’t know nor cared for a week, but that’s generally the split second his life ends. 

The young woman is hands down arresting—the _belle_ of his desire. And that might be petty if she wasn’t also well-disposed and probably the nicest woman alive.

Three weeks in, Ben witnesses her stop to help a grandame who dropped a basketful of assorted fruits and vegetables known to man purchased from the market. It takes a while, and Ben tries to relish every second of it watching her bend and grab all the produce. He wished he could at least bear a hand, but the sandwich isn’t really made for flexing and if he crushes it, he buys it. When everything is collected and saved, she brushes the muck and bits of dirt off the goods with the soft fabric from her very own dress and stows them into the basket. She then hands it to the old ladywith a subtle bow of apology, as if she owed her one and had something to do with it by accident.

That’s the start of it, which, in fact, turns out to be a theme.

She gives a desolate vagrant a piece of bread and more or less her cup of cappuccino unprompted, and what seems to be a fifty, with a calm excuse she doesn’t carry any more bucks she can give. She halts to pet dogs and smile at countless strangers and once, for once Ben wasn’t paying much attention until she stops and the young beauty is in front of him, checking the menu with a wavering look, him trying not to check her out.

But he _fails_. 

Held hostage by her allure, Ben gazed up at her, gazed down, thought for a minute, then gazed up again, cruising her figure as he subtly devours her beauty. He’s right. She’s doubtlessly beautiful, a honey-eyed brunette with short, darkish brown hair, dressed and exuding her style in sophisticated white satin wrap bodysuit paired with pitch-black trousers. He tried to stay at ease and free from his alarm, “Can I, uh... help you? Anything you would like, perhaps?”

She looked at him, studied with piercing scrutiny and thus regarded him with a faint smile, “No, thanks. But you look quite a _snack_.”

"P-Pardon me?" he asks, a penetrating gaze probed through her, his brow cocking in surprise.

Ben could notice her nearly blinking with feigned innocence as he gaped at her, her flush growing darker as soon as she minds her mistake. "Oh, uhm, you look pretty mouth-watering in that suit. _Sandwiches_," she slowly corrected, shifting her weight as she flickers back a glance, "just the right serve for customers."

Her eyes then wandered over to the veggie burger, which Ben would eventually notice and point out, concerning how bum and poor it gets him the time he had his mouth all over it. To her credit, he merely appears to be embarrassed as he coughs. “...T-That one burger isn’t really as good as you think,” he says, a little keyed up. He shouldn’t be blunt about telling these things, for a fact that he’s only a sandwich seeking the attention to get customers and the means were short. But what does it matter if he could care less what happens. “If you’re ever a vegetarian and, just in case—you know, vegan turned  _meatatarian_. You’d be wasting your money.” 

“Really?” the young brunette asks. “Ah, I think that sounds... well, being a meatatarian is my twenty-three year lifestyle.”

And then, there was a pause, it was as though no _such _words were ever said. For a second, Ben thinks he’s talking to someone else, but they’re in the post-morning rush lull and the sidewalk is quiet. He never knew he had the guts nor the courage to turn his head and look at the beauty standing before him, praying that he be at least spared from this humiliation. It was amusing, yet it still feels like a slap in the face. When he locked eyes with her, he could see her eyes play with light the way honey teases an unsuspecting sunbeam. When the sunbeam first notices the honey it was like tea—warm, orangey-brown and is intrigued with the warmth's intimations and so is trapped. 

Ben then realizes that his prayers were in vain because, sure enough, here he is, in the middle of October, working part-time at a fast food joint six days a week and practically having no life, apart from playing EA sports with Poe when they’re back home and,  _holy fuck, you just came over to order stuff and, oh no, I think I might already have this huge, fat crush on you ‘cos you’re always so nice to everyone and to me, I hope you don’t notice how I’m such a funny-looking dumbass in a hotdog sandwich suit._

She does have a fine, bright smile, too, not that he’d ever admit that. As pretty as a picture, she is. He snapped his eyes back up to hers when he takes in that he may have been worshipping her curves and the contours of her face just a bit too long. She was still smiling lightheartedly at him, and Ben wondered what might’ve been pushing her to force a grin upon her thin, luscious lips.

“That was shameless of me, don't you think?” the lovely woman declared. 

Ben stared at her for a second longer before finally licking his lips and deciding to speak. “Er... it's no biggie,” he says, managing to shoot up some transports of delight in it rather than the practically lethal bolt out of the blue that’s surging through his veins. At least, he isn’t blushing—only that he’s in a cold sweat. The serious hang-up that he’ll sometime spoil and screw up engages with the casually reactive necessary to go as warm and rosy as the sight of the tomato spotted at the corner of his eye, and Ben just hopes it cleans up to a partly nude shade.

"But, really, believe me if I say you look great," this time, she knows she was being wiser and didn't stick to her guns failing herself. 

_You’re a sandwich_,  his hard brain recalls to him cunningly. There’s some complexion and tone in her cheeks—it’s a cool morning—and Ben had been reservedly anticipating she’d be plain up close. She’s not—flawlessly, it’s all  _perfection_. He felt another flush rolling up his face at the intimation of hearing her last words. It was tough to tell if it was the fact that she complimented him by saying he looked great, or that she apparently didn’t mind at all talking to a hotdog sandwich. Thankfully, she mustn’t have noticed in lieu of him confused and flustered, and yet she softly tucked a lock of her chin-length hair behind her ear, only for it to flop again as her cheeks tinted pink. She must be flirting with him, he thought, but hoped not. When he again caught a glimpse of her, she was gazing at him attentively, as if his face was a coded message she was meaning to break. And even so, Ben settled on trying to divert the attention back to her by simply addressing himself to her remarkable presence. He holds out his hand, the good deal of underlying aptitude and muscle memory bearing where the sheer odds and ends of his gray matter has snapped up in all-out panic mode. “The name’s Ben,” he offers.

Momentarily, he’ll later appreciate the instance his place lurks and brushes from mild and gently humbling to life-shattering as the young woman favorably makes herself take his hand in return. “I’m Rey,” she manages, and once more, smiles. 

“Nice to meet you. Surreal but um... _nice_,” he looked at her again and her eyes somehow carried off to look even warmer than normal, her smile so broad now that he can’t help but wonder if it hurts her to smile that big. And god, her bare hands were warm even through the biting, bitterly cold breeze. Rey didn't laugh like a woman, she giggled like a girl and Ben loved it. It was like listening to her inner child breaking out, though everything else about her was all womanly. Her face was mobile in the way deeply happy and content people's are, simply lacking the tension anxiety brings. Her magnetic eyes had a mellowness to them as the sky at sunset, a luminous glow of happiness with something so welcoming yet in the rich browns. And then to his timeless self-reproach, his muscle memory cherry-picked that very while to mock him.

“Would you like a flyer...?”

* * *

For sure, Poe knows about Rey for he works at Kanata’s along with Ben, and not to slur over the case that they both live under the same roof in a small house with a blue door somewhere in downtown New York, and he’s the only one who thinks taking a part-time line as a sandwich isn’t the most ridiculous thing to ever happen to one, beefy bloke. Hux then snaps a photo of Ben on his first day and issues a print to mount on the wall by the lounge.  _Look, cool isn’t it? _he then tells Ben later, showing off his lock screen overweeningly. 

Maz was decent with it. She draws Ben aside for the meanwhile to question him about his stretch and if he ever needs a couple more hours, but he knows he’s only doing it for his daily one-hundred-and-eighty-second off. 

Later in the day, Ben is back home, snuggling by himself on the sofa, trying to watch a football game when an overly frenzied Poe with no sense of personal space or privacy returns, sprawling against him and clinging onto Ben in a tight lock like a sitting duck as though they haven’t seen each other in years.

“I missed you.” 

“Get off me, you idiot!” Ben chokes, strangling a gasp as he swallowed his words. “I got off work an hour earlier before you so stop smothering me alive.”

“Still. You missed me,” Poe nestled closer and Ben cranks up the fan, the cuddles relentlessly unescapable.

They’ve been stuck with each other ever since, after randomly being housemates in the late summer for the past two years. Ben once had the house to his own for nearly eight months until he decided to take in lodgers to help pay the bills, and Poe was his first and last candidate, so he barely had an option. At first, it was hell for Ben, believing that Poe’s the exact definition of madness and chaos. Their house has always been a three-ring circus on mornings, a total madhouse inspired by literally  _everything_ on a mishmash—there are piles of dirty laundry strewn all over the floor, food splattered in the microwave, crumbs all over the kitchen counter, a film of grease around the stove, dirty dishes sitting in the sink, old newspapers piled up in the corner... Poe’s in luck that he didn’t get murdered any second in the morning when Ben found the fridge door left open. But for some reason he respects and adores the slightly younger man, with his positively cocky deportment and never ending humor. He usually has fun facts for him whenever he arrives back home, even if the latter and outmost didn’t really wanted to know how frogs or lizards have sex.

Sure, it helped enough with his ego. What didn’t actually count was his relationship status, had been single from, well, _always_. Poe even tried signing him up on Tinder, had set him up on blind dates several times but every time he does a suchlike thing, Ben forbids it. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the help he gets from his friend, but mainly because he wanted to find his ideal, the right one for him on his own. There’s many, different chances. He may have found her, maybe not. He do believes time will tell, and who knows? His future might be just around the corner. 

“I think there’s something wrong with this yogurt,” Poe tries to call out his attention as he walked out of the kitchen, eating something white out of a styrofoam container with a spoon.

“I’m afraid it does. Because it’s certainly not yogurt—it’s mayonnaise.”

He then casually goggled at the container, having a quick eye on the label, “Oh, right.” Although it had hit him, he takes another spoonful before putting it back into the fridge. “Well, there you go,” he mumbled. 

It doesn’t get any better, significantly when Poe gets back to his scene and has that discouragingly stupid grin on his face, “Hey, Ben.”

Glare traveled through him with unnerving thoroughness. “No,” Ben snaps, supposedly uninterested and not wanting to fall for his small talk. 

“You need to get laid.” 

“Fuck off, Poe,” he snarled, shooting him a disgusted glance. It’s the fourth time this week and Poe has started to become much more annoying. “If there’s someone who needs to get his ass worked up between the two of us dickheads in this room, it’s you. You’re fucking all over the place.” 

“Don’t mind me, Benny. I have my rules,” Poe smirks, getting off him and ambled to his own personal flat upstairs, leaving Ben dumbfounded in a haze. He knows Poe has went out with a couple girls before, and every one of them eventually ends up with insane, meaningless hook-ups he never gets tired of every other weekends. As far as Ben knows, he hasn’t mentioned anything fresh lately, but it ain’t his place and he admits he  _does_ needs to get a bit laid.

They spend the rest of the night eating leftover pizza and having a video fest of the best classics on TV, Poe now spilling beans and schmoozing bits of information about the perks of being positively bisexual. Ben thought he was going nuts at first, not presuming Poe to be so candid and plainspoken with him, never hesitated to speak the unvarnished truth about his sexuality. Poe wasn’t serious being equally sexually attracted to both sexes in the first place, having been only messing around with a handful of skirts at the ol’ cantina on weeknights. Neither he takes it for granted with Finn, the bartender at his usual spot, to flirt back, or kiss him first for the matter when they were alone closing up one night. From then on they started getting more affectionate with each other recently, having those sweet talks and small smiles. It  _is_ quite the tea, and they’ve been making out a lot, and now Poe seeks to ask him out on a date very soon, yet he couldn’t afford to ask and chickens out much often he’d dare to. 

It’s no wonder, when Poe came back home the past weekend, needless to say late, recurrently not answering any of Ben’s calls, doesn’t leave back a voicemail nor replies to any of his social media, and singing, _‘__I just had sex and it felt so fucking good’ _way off key while scurrying around the room and stumbles upon a not so amused Ben. “_Jesus, Poe. Will you fucking sHUT THE HELL UP!”_ he cried out. 

_“We had sex on the counter and god, it feels so, so good... so organic. Finn was huge and—”_

Ben’s eyes go wide, remarking him with a glare, and his hand covering Poe’s mouth with the point of considering locking him up in his room to keep his peace. He didn’t need to identify the yogurt on the bar counter with the bartender and his best friend doing...  _things._

“Her name’s Rey Niima, she works at a corporate law firm—Black Diamond Associates,” Poe addresses.

Ben freezes with a look on his eyes, his heart stopped briefly in recoil at the very thought, “What?”

“The girl you like,” Poe then picks up a slice, studying the topping before taking a hesitant bite, nibbling slowly in case something strange was done to the pizza. As soon as he feasted on, he takes another bite albeit larger, wolfing down the slice quickly. “You told me her name’s Rey, right?” he continued.

_Rey. _Her name is Rey. 

Meanwhile, Poe is the only one Ben trusts with that. He may be ignorant and sometimes an overall ass, inasmuch with all the dating games and clownish matchmaking, he  is quite understanding regardless. 

“I...don’t...” Ben would have said something genuine, but he lost his ground, and untimely submits to his defeat which promptly urges Poe to keep blabbering.

“No sweat, Ben. You could still be out there. You could still get rid off being a hotdog and just be...  _you_,” he says, swiping another slice. “It isn’t over till the fat lady sings.” 

Ben would describe the way Poe eats pie as like a four year old with a bag of mixed candy. He'd pick all his favourite stuff off the pizza first and then, when he was half satiated, he’d pull a face at the rest of the bite like he was looking at a bag of liquorice and aniseed balls while the flavour of salsa still played on his tongue.

“Hold up, I forgot to get the booze,” Poe picks himself up, and scurries through the kitchen to get the beer stocks stored in the fridge. “How did you get her name again?” 

Ben airily runs his broad fingers through his wavy, mid-length, dark hair, trying to physically wipe the token of his pity out of his head. “I gave her a throwaway,” he replied.

“She told you her name in exchange for a flyer?” Poe jolted out, retracing back his gaze to give Ben a dubious look as he questions him, bushy brows beetled, one slanted in strong disapproval.

Intriguingly, there was no answer the rest of the room won’t shoot down, and Ben doesn’t mistake the second Poe is obsessed and frets over his offbeat connection with not just _some_ girl he met. And no, he’s not giving away more ammo, whether or not he doesn’t know how to excuse himself that he’s tolerable for his whole new ball game. Ben admires this extraordinarily gracious woman walk by their shop each morning, to know there’s this one, flawlessly ideal person out there lurking around the corners, and demeans to make a fairly level-headed bloke like him—not often in and out of love—look upon her luxury. 

Since that very day Ben unwarily let himself flop, Rey has made an effort greeting his mornings with her small, subtle waves along with her warm morning smile, which apparently became a sort of motive and Ben perhaps feels truly delighted. And every once in a while, she would even call out his name softly, ahead with a few words of wisdom and encouragement tomake his day more welcoming and pleasurable. 

_Have a good day, Ben. Don’t stress yourself too much, Ben. Everything will be alright, Ben._

* * *

The lunchtime rush had just begun at Kanata’s and the staff were busier than ever. It was chaotic. Ben had to cover another last minute shift thirty minutes past his time out, while Poe and the rest of the p.m. crew were all over taking orders and serving tables as a few more customers along together with the crowd kept breaking in fairly nonstop. It is two minutes before noon when Rey eventually shows up. She doesn’t commonly walk by the usual, but mostly ten minutes prior to midday. Cut-and-dried, she does her plain-Jane wave and smiles at Ben as she made her way and barged in through the joint’s glass doors with ease. 

Ben already had his eyes over her the instance she walked in. He can see her looks clearly through the glass window, watching her seat herself down comfortably nearby, still admiring the settings around her as she composedly waits for her food to be served at her table. He was practically relishing the moment, adoring her  perfections like no other, until Poe, tactlessly uncalled for, drags himself into the scene as he shoved past the door for supposedly on no account. “You’re staring,” he laughs, low enough for only Ben to hear.

“I’m  _not_,” he claims, trying to defend himself.

“Why not try getting her number then? Unless you want _me _to ask?” Poe has no decent canon or anything of the sort, would sell his friends off for drinking money and thus, is utterly on the ball of walking straight to the lovely customer Rey and asking for her number, all while pointing at Ben.

“You idiot, we’re at work! You’re supposed to be inside serving the tables till the latter,” Ben exclaimed. They aren’t intended to be chatting outside, for it would be unfair to be too careless and casual while everybody else from the crew were being completely immersed and rather capably wasted, nevertheless. 

“Would you whoop my ass if I tell you I want to work with you?  _Man, it would be a bloody pleasure,_”  Poe whines in his kitten-like tone and, yes—Ben would be so pleased and he wants _nothing_ more than to kick his best friend’s stupid ass back inside.

But maybe he’ll just have to save that for later. “That’s a lame cop-out, Poe, so suck an egg. I’m taking five,” he retreated, getting himself a coke and unfortunately runs into some stud as they both coincidentally tend to rush through the parlor’s glass doors. Ben’s lips were on the verge of an apology, but the man appears to be more than ready to overlook Ben’s faults and unconsciously sweeps him aside.

And it gets worse.

The second Ben anchored his attention upon Rey who used to be so serene as she sat at her table from a short distance, it was as though something large and squamous erupted into life in his stomach, clawing at his insides. The nausea swirling unrestrained, hot blood seemed to flood his brain with half-formed regrets. He hadn’t been dreaming, yet it already feels like a nightmare—it turns out that she isn’t, in fact, _alone_ after all. It was that man. Ben studied him from head down to toe. His straightly refined jaw, his broad arms that Ben would be so self-assured to compare with. On either side of his straight nose were two blazing hazel eyes; spiked, warm brown fringed with smooth green. His dark brows were actually graceful, but currently furrowed in a frown. Together they were lethal, and Ben couldn’t bear to mock himself and play not to stare, so that neither thought was extinguished, cut out by a spiteful urge would that he be _‘The Boy Who Lived'_, together with his magic wand and he'd possessedly jinx him into a jelly. But past the raging storm, and through the crushing dismay, it all makes sense. Of course, Rey would have _that_ someone. But what right had he to probe into her personal life and relationship? He’s even barely her cup of tea.

He’s _just_ a hotdog sandwich.

His heartache was was like a wolf eating at his chest, tearing it's way to his trembling heart. It threatened to devour him, eat him whole and leave nothing but scraps behind. But he refused to be the scraps she would leave. He would rebuild himself and fight off the wolf, but right now he didn't know how. How could he when his world had crumbled?

Ben levels a glowering look at the man and sees him lean in to Rey as he sat next to her, settling a feeble hand onto her delicate shoulder. For the next few seconds, Ben stood there, frozen, the desperate pang of dejection constantly invading his mind. He thus tries to nerve himself to concede that he’s been rather but a hopeless romantic, and without taking his thoughts with a pinch of salt, Ben knows his life is far over.

That night, Ben begs off work eight minutes before and went straight home to take out his affliction on some dutch courage. The living room sets that vibe that he doesn’t feel like talking when he’s been given the worst job at the joint, and Maz points him in the direction of a stupid sandwich getup which Poe says is _‘an appetizer for the honey dips to go to the kitchen and make one a sandwich’_. He’s been drinking things through most of the night, and quite under the weather his eyes seemed to sag out, except getting ripped at 2 am was meaningfully worthy, actually. With Poe peacefully slapping the sheets upstairs, surrounded by his own walls, Ben has the rest of the half-rack to his poor, pathetic soul until he shoots himself to hell, and eventually pops up another drink and slugs it straight back.

He earned the drama to his self for hours, not when Poe later goes down, and mostly out of pity, Ben supposes. “You owe me a sixer, and you better pull your crap together. I won’t take no for an answer,” Poe addresses.

“She has a boyfriend,” down in the mouth, Ben mumbled sullenly, his tone so gloomy and gruff, thick and thrown cold water on his heavyhearted blues. There’s no question who he meant. Their hearts beating the same drum when Ben had his world shattered into dead, tearful scraps, Poe didn’t let it lie. “They weren’t doing anything risqué, or salty and suggestive. I mean, I saw him and he’s an odd dick but quite good looking and they—_fuck it_. What do I even have, anyways? A fucking sandwich?”

_Heart_, Ben ponders to himself. _Don’t be so dramatic_. He wasn’t buying it, however, a step close enough for him to bite the dust. Fairly catching up and might as well gassing himself a brewski, Poe then takes a quick glance at him, and gives off a little, “_Hmm_,” though it sounded a bit considering.

“I’ll be quitting tomorrow,” Ben tells him. Now’s the time. He’ll move on from it, and she may probably be his worst, but needless to say not his first. His feet was part of clay, partly broken and eventually molded to fall. He took the job and remarkably started with the right foot, lucked out and met one, astounding woman—though his own part of the picture hangs on the luck of the draw. He is a dumb cluck.

“Well, maybe I should stop by at the cantina and grab another half-rack for some courage. And then, I guess I’ll see you off,” this is Poe, giving the best of his humor in trying to cheer him up.

“Unless he gives or lets you pay at a discount, you’re not spending money to dick around with Finn on a Friday and put your ass to the desk for the last two hours,” Ben scoffs in reproach, and tries to make it risible more than a sham. “Don’t let me get a load of things I probably can’t afford to unsee. Trust me, I’ve had worse,” he added.

* * *

* * *

True to his words, Poe stood there, armed with much pep talk Ben doesn’t want himself to bother with.

“I’m a hotdog,” Ben repeats, pointing out to argue that this would be a huge flop. His reasoning owed him a couple glares, but it wasn’t convincing enough to make him feel much at ease.

“You’re _not_ a hotdog. You’re merely dressed as one,” Poe removes his hand from Ben’s chest and changes his tack. “I know you noticed. And whatever feeling that is you have for her, it’s not just something worth taking personally.” Ben hardly leaves off a sigh, dropping into topics he once cared about but neither commented nor is eager to give back a piece of his attention. “Ever since you met her, you can’t stop thinking about her, talking about how pure and nearly flawless she is,” Poe shakes his head as he wondered briefly, making contact with Ben’s dark, hazel eyes as strongly as he could. “You can’t stand a day for a failure to miss her once. You must admit that, you just—”

“I don’t know, Poe, I—” he’s flushing, remark came out of left field, and he could only stare at him with an egg on his face being shadowed by his own persecution. It was clearly one of those weaponized sentences that get flung out to hurt, to end conversations. Ben is ready to hand in his resignation—or, mentions it in walking pass the back of the shop, which is rightly what he ought in need. He’ll be off before it reaches the hundred, and so he can move forward with his life and risk forgetting he ever spent at least over a month playing dress up as snack foods so he could practically plug his eyes upon the most wonderful woman alive.

“Ok. I know this isn’t very promising of me,” Ben could sense a but coming, the babble of talk died at his entry as Poe takes a deep breath, trying to overcome a stutter. Shortly, he then continues, “But I’ve alluded to Maz and brought up your resignation. She wanted me to tell you that you can’t step down until you talk things through with this girl.”

“What the—oh you’ve got to be kidding—,“ Ben rolls his eyes. The day had broken like the sweet melody of a blackbird, full of promise, freshness and newness to come. Now it sat like a cold cup of coffee waiting to be drained away.

“No, Ben. Talk to her,” Poe cuts with a gaze, a sliver of emotion in those cool eyes sloped down at the corners like a sad pup. He then began to step aback, farther away to a short breath of a distance.

_Talk to her_, if that’s what they want, fine. He’ll do exactly what they tell him to do, and it’ll go exactly how he wishes it. He’ll eventually get things through, and that’s it.

But Rey doesn’t walk by to show up at a fashionable time. It was barely eleven and the heat has been already climbing through him, sweating through his shirt. By noon, internally, he’d be a soaked sandwich, having to regret not quitting as the crow flies off the bat. He appeared to be so vulnerable, that people would dare to give him enough looks of concern, sicker than a stray pup desperately crying out for nurture, but the bit of him that’s dying as it eats his heart out for his life’s shame and self-pity for one girl he thought meant the world to him didn’t fall in less with his heart’s complaints. Surely, it’s approximately around 40 degrees this morning, perhaps setting a new record on the table. Surely, the woman he would certainly carry a torch for, who had completely, utterly swept him off his feet on a once warm, blue, Monday morning unwittingly rips every inch of him apart. And surely, he’s an idiot idiotically dressed up as a hotdog sandwich, standing on the corner of the street, under the hot, burning skies of New York city. A stubbornly looking sandwich. That’s _all_ he is.

Without any further notice, a soft, measuredly distinct voice fished his name out of the conversation, “Ben...”

Her voice is wondrous.

He could hardly see her through the gleams of sheer sunlight shrouding her roughly, being cloaked in a costume that doesn’t work best in quite a few conditions, and now he’s all drenched with sweat on the inside, along with steeped locks of his hair that kept smothering his eyes. He’s in a damn good mess, indeed. And soon, Ben fathoms, he had no clue how to respond. _Talk to her_, Poe raises him in mind. Somewhat of an alarming courage outstays him. To him, Rey is the most comely woman his eyes had ever met, and Ben isn’t too presuming to proclaim it. Nobody would be capable of being sorry to say so—but no one would have the audacity to dress up as hotdogs to set their heart and spoil away their love, moreover.

“Y-Yeah...?” he was a craven, saying it absently.

Rey padded closer, her eyes beaming with intensity, “Is it true that you’re quitting?” she questions, meddling in his affair. He could sense fear in her voice, even a tone of spite, but curious. “The shop told me so, so I thought I should probably stop by to bid you my best regards and, I suppose a goodbye.”

“Maybe,” he drew out the word and shrugs, the costume moving slightly in the frailest motion but almost not, and he knew she didn’t believe it. “It isn’t too hot in here, I guess.” It is. It’s sweltering. Ben doesn’t feel that great. At all.

“What are you doing out here?”

“I’m quitting,” he replies, Rey already had the knowledge of that regardless. For a moment, Ben looks down, chafing his shoe to the crust of the sidewalk, “Listen, having this conversation with you is like trying to teach a recipe for ice water.” Rey didn’t respond, but only drilled at him ardently made Ben feel more than a pinch of asperity.

He seemed about to speak, but the thread eluded him. For a moment, he had it, but tries to muster as much of it anymore than before. If he’d rehearsed this conversation once, he’d rehearsed it a thousand times. It had to end. Yet his mouth had gone dry and his heart was beating more forcefully than it usually did. “But you’re beautiful, you have a boyfriend, and _I... _I’m just a hotdog sandwich,” he knew he blundered, and was too chicken to be cleanly civil and outspoken. He said it too fast and too loud, like swallowing a string of profanities. He thought, sentences had a practiced feel, yet as though he’d uttered them several times before.

“We just broke up,” Rey advances closer, her attention trained on his notable presence that was confounded either a spectacle or fog. “He‘s a dick, I should’ve known better. And you’re not a sandwich—you’re appreciably _more_ than that. You work as a sales clerk at Klaud and Binks’s, right?”

Ben faintly nods, but it took him seconds to find his voice as his face turns into colour with blush arising to his cheeks.

Rey smiles at him, her mouth turned into greater than a fraction of an inch. “I knew you looked familiar the first time I saw you here. And I’m sorry if this sounded so wrong, but it’s far from what you think.”

There’s no mundane reason why she’d care to take note of how he looked, or even remembered him from there. He was right about her boyfriend, but now she describes him as though he was an offscouring, telling him like it meant nothing to her as much for their shared bond and connection that were rather odds and ends of something sincere and momentous. Still, it’s worth a shot.

“I _like_ you,” Ben blurted out, finding himself dropping the last three words of his sentence to a grumble. The tension that had kept him up for days straight melted into nothing. He had been weighing it for weeks, a month before he could finally breathe in the fresh air of solace anew. He lays that truth on the ground amidst them and then raises his hands to the side. _I’m just a sandwich, standing in front of a girl, asking her to love him_.

The playfulness fell away like a discarded cloak. Rey looked flustered, but conflicted. “I-I don’t... I don’t know, Ben,” she narrowly took his word for it, utterances freighted with reluctance and chagrin. He was eating humble pie, flat and steady, but tight as a plucked wire. “I’ve been with a few blokes ever since I was sixteen. Been through a couple breakups, counting that very last. And the _funny_ thing is, you barely even know me,” she bolted.

“I’m sorry if this made it a lot worse.” Hesitating, he then stepped a bit closer. “I just saw you were together yesterday. I didn’t know you broke up,” quite a coincidence, his voice made it clear it was anything but tone could have frozen peas.

They both seemed to have a silent conversation as they humbly stared at each other so wooden. Rey finally unglues her eyes off from the all but literally sandwich-stuffed hunk, trying to bury her dust when Ben alighted his hand over her frail shoulder. It was soft and warm, reassuring almost, as if he sensed her desperation. “Rey, I want you to promise me something," he mumbles, his expression utterly serious, "I know I have my limits, and I shouldn’t be prying into your own matters. But, whatever it is, just come out and say it."

As Ben stood towering above her she lets out a shaky breath, the dread and anxiety deadening her mind and body. “It's nothing. He’s out of the damn picture, that’s it. But, things were just a bit overwhelming and I start to realize—" she paused, searching the depths of his dark, coruscant eyes, “I-I think I like you too, Ben.”

He couldn’t find his voice, and felt his cheeks flushed hot. It was only a mere sentence, but it was enough to make Ben go weak at his knees. It felt like liquid adrenaline being injected right into his bloodstream—just enough to make him excited. His skin tingled when they dipped gazes and his heart beat erratically in his chest so hard that he felt as if he would burst. “Wait, do you... did you really mean that?" his lips were turned up into a tiny smile, a look designed to betray the liquid pools of enthusiasm flaunted upon his face.

Probing a visual caress, she then whispers, “Yes. And, I suppose I have already told you, but...” keeping herself close to his keen presence, she shortly ceases, but eventually continues.

“You’re completely, _utterly_ quite a snack.”


End file.
